His Voice, Forever
by Rebecca Steven Taylor
Summary: Crowley, a demon who always has the latest gadgets, has an old-fashioned, tape, answering machine. Why? Is it so he can record the message left by a certain angel, and keep them forever?


Anthony J Crowley, demon of hell and keeper of secrets, has a few secret hiding places in his flat. Not for himself, if he needs to hide he has places to run to and people – someone – to take with him. These are tiny little cupboards set into the walls, and opened with a touch in just the right place, or the click of a switch elsewhere, or only at a certain time and day. Or only if he dies forever, for good, no coming back. (That one contains a letter, addressed to Angel, and the first line is 'my love').

You don't need to know what's in some of the cupboards. As mentioned, Crowley is a demon of hell, and has to do demonic things. He has to keep those below scared of him, make the Disposable Demons tremble just a little bit as he walks past them, make Beelzebub just wary enough to want to keep him on Earth, make Hastur back off from challenging him, even as he questions him. To do that, he has to do some truly demonic things from time to time – not just claim credit, but be seen to walk through the halls of Hell, dripping with blood and whistling a jaunty tune, and drop a damned soul at Lucifer's feet, and then walk away to drink himself to oblivion for a week. He has to do all this to make sure they stay away from his life and never see or scent the angel. One day he'll have to stand between Hell and Aziraphale and he wants to make blessed sure that Hell shudder when he does so.

But we don't need to look in those cupboards. No, this one is in his garden, his own little slice of Eden. A small cupboard, two foot by two foot, opened only by his thumbprint on what looks like a flaw in the concrete behind a particularly vicious Venus Fly Trap. It is full of audio tapes.

OoOoOo

When Crowley first got an answering machine, it was more for the look of the thing than any actual use he'd get out of it. He was cool, he had style, cool, stylish people had answering machines. Jason King had one. No-one ever actually phoned him though. Hell just barrelled its way into his life via radio and TV screens and in one never-to-be-mentioned-again moment, via the advertising display in Piccadilly Circus. No-one just phoned Crowley for a chat.

Well, almost no-one.

_Crowley? Crowley are you there? What do you mean, leave a message? You've got one of those damnable contraptions, haven't you? Honestly, what fresh hell is this? Ring me whenever you've finished doing whatever it is you're doing at this time of night. Why you can't just answer the phone like a normal…._

Crowley had doubled up in laughter listening to the angel's outraged voice on the answering machine. It had brightened his whole week, and he had played the message several times.

_Oh, not again. Listen, I think I've found what you need, the Dread Sigil Odegra should do the job. It's roughly the same shape, you'll just have to get some marker posts moved. I don't know how, but the practicalities are your domain. I must say, it's a very ambitious plan, I'll be very impressed when you pull this one off. Hell should give you a medal for this one. I never did like motorways at the best of times, nasty, soulless places. Come over and we'll get a presentation put together. I'll get some food in, and some wine, and we'll make a night of it. Pip pip._

That, along with about twenty messages from Aziraphale demanding when Crowley was going to answer his damned phone (and one person trying to sell him fire insurance, which was a lost cause) filled up the tape. Crowley was about to wipe it, and then stopped.

The demon Crowley had a heart. A damned – blessed – sentimental, emotional heart, that beat for only for one purpose – for love. A doomed, hopeless, helpless love for a fussy angel that gave his flaming sword away to the first humans, and never condemned Crowley for what Hell made him do, and made him smile, and forced him to tears and kept him here, alive, on Earth, for 6000 years. He hated how entwined his heart was with that prissy little angel's life. He hated how it would beat for the briefest touch of a hand. He hated how one bright smile could force it to skip a beat altogether. He hated how the sound of his voice made his heart glow. It felt like a glow. It felt warm. He hated it so much, he couldn't bear to wipe the angel's voice away.

He built the cupboard himself – no miracles. No trail for Hell to follow. He put the tape in and kept it safe. Over the years he has mended it with sellotape and played it only if absolutely necessary, careful of its fragility, reluctant to taint it with a demonic miracle. He hated that he was so soft and weak about the angel, even as he burned with love. He has kept the tapes because even if he loses the angel – and he knows that is a very real possibility – he will still have his voice, forever.

OoOoOo

Aziraphale got used to the machine. He would simply chat away to it as if Crowley was there, although he would get exasperated with it. Mind you, he would get exasperated with Crowley too, so no change there. On nights when Crowley felt like he had spent too much time with the angel, made his feelings too obvious, been just a bit too clingy, he would sit in his throne and wait for the phone to ring. If it didn't ring, he would get the tapes out and listen.

_Listen, there's a Blake exhibition at the Tate and I got us tickets. Remember that afternoon we popped up in his garden and spent hours talking about all the things Milton got wrong in Paradise Lost? And he said he thought Milton was secretly on Satan's side? I wonder if he drew us? Anyway, pick me up at nine._

_It's me, but of course you know that. Fancy trying this sushi place? Remember how we loved it in Japan? Well, I did, you didn't eat any of it. Call me back._

_Will you ever answer your phone, you blessed demon?_

_There's a new Sondheim playing! Sweeney Todd – you'll love this. I've got us front row seats. Pick me up._

_I'm sorry I lost my temper. Of course it wasn't your fault, and I really ought to know better by now. you're far too kind to do anything like that. Come and see me, please? I can't apologise properly to the answerphone._

_It's me, do you want to go to Glyndebourne? They're doing The Flying Dutchman! Was that you?_

_Listen, do you know where I can get some rather specialised books on summoning demons? I've got a customer, a young man who wants someone. Not for bad reasons, he says, anyway. He specifically wants to know about a place called Sunnydale?_

_Faust is playing at Covent Garden. Lets go and disapprove of Mephistopheles. No style, not like you._

_I have some rats here who say they know you. Don't you feed them? Well, I've fed them, and healed them, and really, my dear, take better care of your rat army, they do such good work for you. Yes, I've been talking to them. They're very polite._

_Where were you? I was waiting at the British Museum café for three hours! Oh – wait, hang on – is the second alternative rendezvous the café, or the top of the No 19 bus? Never mind, I went to look at the Rosetta stone. If only they knew what the missing part said – where did we bury that again?_

_Thank you so much for the book. I've been looking for that everywhere, however did you find a copy? Come round, I want to say thank you. I won't say thank you, as we're not allowed to say that to each other, but I'll find a way. I do appreciate all that you do for me, I really do. I…'_

Crowley treasured that tape. He played it over and over, listening to the warmth in Aziraphale's tone, the way he broke off before he could say more, and he imagined over and over and over again what the angel would have said, if he had been there, in front of him.

Nothing, probably. The tape seemed to free Aziraphale up, somehow, let him talk without restraint. He could say things to the machine he could never say to Crowley's face.

OoOoO

_I just wanted to let you know I'll be gone for a week. Perhaps a fortnight. No longer than a month, at most. I have to go to Heaven for some – well – Gabriel calls it 'retraining'. I haven't been a very good angel lately, too many frivolous miracles. There's no need to worry, but will you be so kind as to take care of my shop?_

He had worried. He had gone to the bookshop every day and paced up and down the worn carpet, planning all the ways he could storm Heaven to get Aziraphale back. He had counted the days, hours, seconds. He had gone back to his flat after two months to fetch tools, weapons, whatever he'd need to break through the gates of Heaven themselves. Whatever it took, whatever they were doing to Aziraphale was going to end. The phone rang, but Crowley let it go to machine. He had no time for another double-glazing sales call.

_I'm back, my dear. See, I told you, no need to worry. You have taken such good care of my shop, not a speck of dust…_

Crowley had grabbed the phone, and told the angel he was coming to the shop now. He never listened to that tape again. He couldn't bear the sob in his angel's voice. He had found a quiet, pale angel, sitting still in his chair, who had murmured something about being a bad angel. It had taken weeks before Crowley had been able to coax a smile out of him again. Aziraphale would never say what had happened up there, only that he deserved it.

He didn't. Crowley had always known Heaven had treated himself badly, but had hoped the angels that had been left behind had been shown more kindness. It was obvious they hadn't, but this wasn't cruelty of the whip and the chain. This was the cruelty of the soft rebuke, the sad expressions of disappointment, the pitying glances, the expectation, always spoken, that Aziraphale would fail, over and over and over again, all under the guise of 'love'. Hell destroyed quickly, in blood and fire. Heaven destroyed slowly, with words, eating away at the spirit achingly slowly like water on stone, and called it love, and made their victims be grateful for their own destruction. All Crowley could do was be gentle and be kind and show Aziraphale was love really was and hope, one day, the angel would turn away. It would have to be his choice, but God only knows what could make him choose Crowley over Heaven. Perhaps he never would.

No, Crowley never listened to that tape.

OoOoOoO

When the first digital answering machines had come out, Crowley had sauntered in the nearest shop to get one. The young man trying to sell him the latest device told him the machine automatically deleted all the messages after ninety days. Crowley remembered his cupboard full of tapes, over 100 of them now, and told him no, and made all the answering machines in the shop play rude messages all day.

There was a tape he rarely listened to. It was too precious. It was too special. It was for those moments when he thought all was lost and gone. When Aziraphale was too far beyond him. when Heaven had too tight a grip on the angel. When he needed just an iota of hope to get through the day, one tiny pinprick of light in eternal darkness.

Hell had called Crowley back with no notice. No reason, just a bit of fun on someone's part. He had spent a year trying to get back to Earth. When he had finally got back, and after a quick visit elsewhere, returned to his flat, he had found his answering machine tape (two hours long) full.

_You missed our lunch date. I know you've got a good reason, shall we rearrange?_

_Where are you? I've been calling all week._

_Are you avoiding me for some reason?_

_Mozart's Requiem is on, I know you love that, come with me?_

_Look, if I don't see you soon, I'll come round to the flat. Don't think I won't. I'm worried, Crowley._

_You weren't there. You weren't anywhere. Where are you?_

_Look – please – please – even if you're angry with me, please just let me know you're well. Alive, at least. Please. It's been four months…_

_Six months. Please – I'm begging you._

_Ever since – ever since I got you that – you know, the stuff. The flask. Ever since I have been terrified that you would use it and I would never know. I try to keep an eye on you, but you are so prone to disappearing. Please, at least let me know that's not what happened. You didn't take – you didn't open the flask. Just that._

_Crowley. Crowley._

_I don't know if you're getting these messages. My hope – my only hope – is that you are in Hell. How absurd, for my best hope to be that you are in that awful place. The alternative, I am afraid, my dearest, is what I cannot bear to contemplate. When you come back, call me. Immediately._

_It's been a year. These messages are futile, I know, but at least I get to hear your voice. Look – find a way back, if you can. I know you can. I need you. There's no point …you have to…I can't…my dear, my Crowley, come back to me, please, please, before it's too late, come back._

_You're gone, aren't you? Either they've decided to keep you down there, or – or the worst has happened. I know you'd never leave me with nothing for this long, not now, not since the war._

And one more message, right at the end, in a soft tremulous whisper, that Crowley never plays.

Crowley hadn't returned straight to his flat when he returned from Hell. He had gone to the bookshop, to find a pale and very still angel staring at his books, but not reading, barely moving.

You don't need to know the conversation. It wasn't even close to all they had imagined saying to each other when they were reunited. Hell was too fresh in Crowley's mind, reminding him that he was watched. Heaven was too close to Aziraphale, reminding him that he was a bad angel.

Aziraphale didn't tell Crowley that he couldn't live if Crowley was gone. Crowley didn't tell Aziraphale that he only lived for the angel. But what they did say to each other was enough for what they had. It was enough to make Aziraphale smile again, and Crowley's heart beat again, and enough for them both to know (although they didn't say it) that never again would they be separated. They'd face down Heaven and Hell, together, to make sure they always stayed by each other's side.

As he had left the shop, Aziraphale told him to delete the messages on his answering machine. He had become a little worried, he said. He had left some silly messages. It was best if Crowley delete them rather than listen to them.

Crowley did not. Crowley listened to each one. He sat in the dark and listened to his angel pour his heart out to his answering machine. He cried, silently, not sure why he was crying, just knowing his heart was thumping as if it would pound his way out of his chest. Once he had finished the tape, once he had heard the very last, almost silent, message, he wrapped the tape up carefully in a separate box of its own, and stored it in the hidden cupboard. He only listens to it occasionally, and he almost never listens to the last message. If he does, he might realise it doesn't say what he thought he heard, and then he would shatter like glass.

OoOoOoO

He came home the morning after the night he had delivered the Anti-Christ to find a message on the answering machine. Aziraphale must have called him last night, before he had found a phone box on a village green and called the angel.

_My dear, I was expecting you for sushi, but don't worry, I know what happened. Gabriel appeared and told me – well, he told me something of what you must have been doing tonight. I must say, it does concern me that Heaven is keeping such a close eye on you. Anyway, call me, whatever is going on, we need to talk. Whatever happens, we'll see it through together, alright? Meet me at St James tomorrow at eleven, our normal bench. Goodnight, dear._

Crowley listened to the message three times. Last night had been all despair and loss and sorrow, but now, now perhaps, there was a just a chance. One fragile golden thread of hope to hold them up and bind them together. Perhaps all was not lost and gone. Perhaps he could persuade the angel to go against Heaven and Hell with him. Perhaps?

He took out the tape, the one he hardly ever listened to, the one from the year he was gone. He wound to the end, and listened, for only the second time, to the message at the very end. The whisper he thought he had misheard. The words that could never be spoken to his face. The words of a despairing angel, thinking the demon would never hear them.

He paused before he pressed play. Perhaps it had been nothing. Perhaps it had only been static on the tape. Nothing at all in fact. Just a breath. A whisper. Crowley had been tired and strained when he had listened to the tape. He had a lot of imagination. Perhaps he only imagined what he wanted to hear. That tiny, soft, barely spoken message. It couldn't possibly be what he thought it had been. Aziraphale could not possibly have said those words, to his machine, to be recorded for all time, forever. He never would. Expecting to be disappointed, to be shattered, Crowley pressed play.

_Crowley. I love you._

There. He had said the words. He had. It was all there, on the tapes, friendship and joy and happiness and sorrow and love, so much love. His voice, forever, telling Crowley he loved him.

That would be enough. If this all failed – and it was almost bound to fail, there was no way one angel and one demon could battle all of Heaven and Hell and God – and it was all gone, he would still have this left. Aziraphale's voice, telling him he loved him. That, at least, was worth fighting for.


End file.
